Because the sun is coming up, and I still haven’t slept,
They call me crazy. But I’m not, I promise you
-Not in a destructive way. I hope that’s alright.
And I can’t see the technicolor clouds from my window,
But maybe that’s for the best. I’d only be identifying
Images of you floating by in the shape shifting aurora.
False dawn passes, its greyish-blue hue
And fresh scent of rain giving me a second,
Third, fourth (and so on) wind, almost as much as the caffeine.
And I waited all night to talk to you,
But you never came. You said you would, though
It was silly of me to think that you would show;
That’s me: silly. But you like me that way.
And with my words failing on a pendulum locket,
Copping like they’re coping with the treasonist panic,
Backstabbing, hair-grabbing, pinching; biting; mother-spiting.
Falling through with mad devices, a lost prolific parody of
Gasping fools, so desperately grasping to the notion of an ending
That they insist is only the beginning to something greater.
I put a sign up in my window: Prozac and papal blessing- 2 bucks a pop.